Page 64 of Cut Off
When we pull into the garage at home, Zoe kills the engine and Eli’s already unbuckling. Then he hesitates, like he’s waiting to be told what comes next. Waiting for someone to give a shit about what happens to him.
“We’re ordering burgers and fries for dinner.” I ruffle his hair after we both hop out. “And you pick the movie tonight.”
He perks up, blue eyes bright. “Anything?”
“Anything. Unless Zoe objects. In which case, she’s wrong.”
Zoe grins. “I’m never wrong, but I’ll allow it.”
Eli snickers, running ahead with his backpack slung over one shoulder, all the drama and stress rolling off. Kids bounce back faster than I can even process.
Zoe hangs back with me in the driveway, face tilted up, glasses reflecting the soft sun. “Today sucked. But you did good.”
I love it when she looks the way she looks now. The glasses, her overall badass vibe where she proves she’s really a cross between a pit bull and a librarian.
I want to kiss her, but I can’t. I just nod, the words jammed in my throat.
Inside, the house is warm and smells like cinnamon from whatever Zoe dumped in the slow cooker this morning. More and more, it feels like a home, not a metal box with nice furniture.
I pause in the kitchen, hand on the counter, letting it all sink in. If Eli hadn’t been waiting for me at the door, if he’d been scared or lost or—fuck, if something worse had happened—I have no idea what I would’ve done.
But here he is.
I breathe, shaky.
Here we all are.
Still standing, still fighting, still in the game.
19
Heated Countertop
JONAH
The house still hums from last night’s dinner—air thick with the scent of popcorn we popped to go along with last night’s movie. I’ve just finished unloading two weeks’ worth of groceries onto the island: eggs, cheese, protein bars, the fruit and yogurt Zoe insists Eli needs every morning or he’ll flunk out of fourth grade. There are six gallons of milk because apparently the only way to get taller is to chug dairy.
I check the clock. Zoe has officially dropped Eli off at school, and I have a solid six hours before he’ll be home pushing me to train harder and asking me questions I don’t have answers to.
Then the front door creaks open, and in walks the biggest threat to mysanity.
Zoe moves through the entryway, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, keys stuffed in her mouth because her hands are full of Eli’s notebooks and a box for his shadowbox project. Her jeans are ripped at the thigh, cuffed at the ankle, and detonating every last shred of my self-control. The sweater is loose, slouchy, pale blue, one side hanging off her shoulder and exposing a constellation of freckles that are going to be the end of me.
She clocks the groceries all over the island, grins, and hip-checks the door closed behind her. “Wow, you took what I suggested to heart,” she says around the keys, voice bright. “Was there anything left at the Porky Forky?”
“You said stock up.”
She drops her stuff, slides her bag onto a bar stool, and swings into the kitchen like she owns the place.
She sidles up next to me, close enough that I can smell her hair, and helps herself to the grocery pile. She plucks out a block of sharp cheddar and holds it up, eyebrow raised. “Top shelf?”
“Yeah. Behind the protein shakes.”
She stretches up, sweater sliding off her shoulder even more, and tosses the cheese in the fridge with a flick before moving on to the avocados. “Why are you buying the rock-hard ones? You gotta test them. Like this.” She cradles it in her palm and squeezes.
My brain short-circuits.
I snag the cherry tomatoes and hand them to her. Our hands brush, and I’m suddenly aware of how empty the house is.
